New World
by A.E. Harbuthnaut
Summary: Most of the stories here involve someone going back to Holmes...what if he came forward to us? Read and find out.
1. Chapter the First

Chapter 1

I had five minutes left of an eight-hour shift. I'd been at the local grocery store since twelve that afternoon, and was really feeling it in my feet. My light was off, and I was just going to finish the rather obnoxious woman that was harassing my packer.

At last, the flood of food abated. I bid my packer farewell and went up to the service counter to tell Lisa, the shift leader, that I was off.

"Lisa, I'm going. Punch my out, ok?" I raised my tired eyes to hers and she nodded.

"But first I want you to help that guy over on the bench." She looked extraordinarily smug. If I hadn't been so tired…ah well.

"Why? I'm leaving…have Emily do it." I whined, citing the first packer (ie minion) I saw. All I wanted to do was go home and eat dinner; I didn't care if the guy fell off the bench and off the face of the earth.

"I think he is going to want more than the location of molasses, or something…he looks like someone from those weird books you read." By the end of that last sentence, Lisa was trying hard (and failing miserably) not to laugh. I shook my head at illiterate shift leaders and walked toward the bench in question.

However, when I saw him, I thought she might have been right. He looked like someone who had just walked off the set of _The Time Machine_. He wore a high collared three-piece suit and a bowler hat. A bowler hat. I surpressed a snicker. He had an old fashioned walking stick that he was shifting back and forth between nervous long fingered hands. There was a watch chain across his gray vest, and his shaggy black hair gleamed with gel or oil in the glaring florescent light. What was I getting myself into?

I walked up to him, slinging my apron over one arm and struggling to get my long black coat on with the other. The man stood up absentmindedly and held the coat for me like it was second nature. Weird. I turned to him, flashed my best 'God, I don't want to be here' smile and said, "May I help you?" It was the first good look I got at his face. He had gray eyes, a rather long nose that struck me as being somewhat Roman, and thin lips. He was also really pale.

"I do not know if you will be able to help at all. I find myself somewhat bewildered. I…do not know where to begin." His voice was low and he had a rather pronounced English accent. Wow. I felt myself feeling bad for the guy. He had the look of a little lost puppy.

"Well, I don't think that this is the best place to explain things…and to see if there's anything to be done. D'you have a coat? It's a bit chilly." He stooped form his considerable height and scooped up a big black greatcoat as I struggled with the idiocy of bringing him back to my place. I didn't know anything about him. At all. For all I knew, he could be some kind of serial killer with a Victorian fetish. But, and I knew it was a stretch, my best friend and her boyfriend had been working on a quantum computer that would allow one to move through time as easily as one could move through space. Maybe, just maybe, this unfortunate walked through one of Pip and Frank's fields. We needed to get out of there, fast. This guy (I still didn't know his name) was calling a lot of attention to himself. That was bad because being committed wasn't what he was after. I hoped.

I took Mystery Guy by the arm and half dragged him out of the store. By the time we hit the sidewalk, he surprise at being dragged by a woman at least a foot shorter than he was wore off and he forcibly slowed our pace, setting my gray-gloved hand in the crook of his arm. I shook my head, and the ghost of a smile flickered across his face. The guy was a nut. And I was bringing him to my house anyway. C'est la vie, I suppose. And maybe he really had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was a possibility I couldn't discount.

"We're going right here. And left here. Up this hill, left again, and here we are." I unlocked the street door to my apartment. I lived on the fifth floor, and you could see Fenway Park from my bedroom window. Here was the dilemma and the proof: if he could handle the elevator, he was not a side effect of Pip's experiment. Then my only problem would be how to get him out of my building…Ah well. What will be will be, I suppose. We would just have to see.

"Ok, you're going to have to bear with me here. I live on the fifth floor, and I think my feet will fall off if I try and climb the stairs. So we're taking the lift. Do you trust me?" he looked down at me, he still had my hand under his own, with an eyebrow up.

"I hardly know you, Miss, but I perceive that you mean me no ill will, so yes, I believe I do trust you. It seams I have no choice." There was an almost hidden inflection of humor in his quiet voice.

"Good." I pushed the button and the doors opened. I stepped in and he followed, albeit with a bit of trepidation. When the doors shut and the elevator started to move, he compulsively grabbed on to the bar that ran around the cube. He kept looking around nervously, as if he was expecting an attack. From the closed elevator. Either he read my mind, or he'd never been on one before. This just strengthened my belief that he walked through one of Pip and Frank's fields.

The ride was short and my apartment was only two doors from the elevator. I unlocked the door, grabbing my cat by the scruff of the neck as she tried to bolt past us.

"What are you doing, you crazy cat?" I asked her, cradling her as I tossed my bag on the couch. I flopped into my overstuffed doublewide wing chair, folding my legs under me and tossing my coat over the back. I gestured to the sofa and the man sat, letting his coat fall beside him.

"Ok, let's start with names. Mine's Elizabeth James." He looked at me a moment with those gray eyes of his, then,

"I am Sherlock Holmes." He caught up my hand and kissed it before I could pull away.

"Really." I squeaked, turning bright red. "That's interesting. Well, you look the part anyway. How did you get here?" he had to be crazy. No way the most famous detective in the world would have just stepped into a field and not noticed it!

"I…do not know. I was walking to meet Watson at Simpson's for dinner and I…walked through…air, I suppose, but it was thicker and shimmering…I thought it was fog…then I was on the street in front of the market. I…do not know what happened." He stopped and looked at me, waiting for an explanation.

I was floored. What he had just described was exactly what was supposed to happen when the quantum computer worked right. He really was Sherlock Holmes, as impossible as that sounds. I had to say something, anything. Oh my God, I was going to kill Pip!

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I hate to tell you, but you've managed to jump ahead in time a hundred and some odd years." I tried to keep my voice steady and from the look on his face, I evidently succeeded. He sprang from his seat and began pacing.

"Why do you believe me? When faced with the same information, I cannot make sense of it! I feel as though my skull is splitting apart!" I blinked at him as he yelled at me.

"I believe you, Mr. Holmes, because I helped design the technology that brought you here."

He rounded on me then, his breath hissing from between his teeth. "_What?_"

"It was a quantum computer. I know you haven't any idea what that is, but trust me, the thing has some serious power. Its purpose, among other things, it to make time travel possible. There was an experiment going on this morning, or evening I suppose it was for you, and you must have walked through it. You aren't insane. I promise." To my credit and great surprise, my voice stayed steady.

"That is hardly a reason to trust a complete stranger, Miss James." He scowled at me. It was the first time I had ever seen anyone scowl before. I smothered the almost overwhelming urge to giggle.

"Would you rather have me throw you out?" I raised an eyebrow and he dropped the scowl and just glared at me. "Didn't think so. Now. I assume you know how to put sheets on a bed?" I got that glare again. "The couch pulls out, and it isn't even all that lumpy. I'll go get ya some." I left the room as he began to look around.

My maroon wingchair was under the window, looking as ratty and beat up as it had when I bought it at a thrift store two years ago to furnish my apartment. Next to it was the dark green pull out sofa that had been new when I bought it. On the other side of the sofa was a dark blue plush recliner that, like my wingchair, could fit two easily. Three, if one didn't mind being cozy. Between the couch and each chair, there was a mismatched set of Tiffany floor lamps that had come from the same thrift store as my chair. There were several other things to sit on; I called them my puffs, but I think they were really ottomans. There were four of them scattered randomly around the room in various dark colours. The ceiling if the big room I had painted a smoky blue, and stuck glo-in-the-dark star stickers around the single light that hung from a chain. I had never wanted to repaint the walls, which were the same shade as my wingchair. Matching wasn't what I was going for in my living room. When I first moved in, I had the nasty beige carpet pulled up and found mahogany floors. In the entire apartment, which wasn't small. There wasn't a single carpet in the place.

When I came back, I saw the inevitable distaste replaced by a grudging acceptance. This was where he would have been living for the next indeterminate amount of time, so he had best get used to it. The rest of the apartment was tasteful, so he could get over the living room.

I tossed him the linens and set to the couch. In bare moments, there were cushions in the air as I pulled out the iron bar. It was a couch no longer. "Go for it, kid." I stalked out of the living room into the gleaming chrome of my kitchen. I heard him trying to figure out how to how to get the sheets on the pull out, and I yelled, "I'm making coffee, you want?"

"Please, this has been a rather trying day." I shuddered to think what my brother would think when he walked in and found a random English guy on my couch…but I would worry about that when it happened.

The insta-coffee chose that moment to be finished, so I stalked back into the living room, where I nearly dropped it. Holmes was trying to get the fitted sheet over the mattress. Not a homemaker, our Mr. Holmes. He turned at my snort (yes, snort) of surprised laughter to glare at me again. The man was really fond of glaring at people.

"Here, you take the coffee; I'll do that. You'd probably hang yourself with them anyway." That last was muttered. I didn't want that glare again; I don't think I could have covered the laughter. I had the impression of being watched as I made up the bed, as if he was trying to learn from watching me. It was really creeping me out.

When I was done, I took back my coffee and sat down. He was obviously waiting for permission to do the same so I waved him into a chair.

"Tell me about yourself" he was looking at me over the rim of his mug. Instantly suspicious (that was the first direct thing he'd said to me since we met, and he wasn't screaming), I faced him squarely and said,

"Why don't you tell me about myself, Mr. Holmes." His eyes lit at the challenge, and he proceeded to tell me all about me.

"I have before me a woman of perhaps two and twenty. She is a student at Boston University, who recently colored her hair," I could hear just a hint of disdain; only women who were no better than they ought to be colored their hair in his time. "She is perhaps five feet and three inches, certainly no taller. She has the…distasteful…habit of snorting. She has vision problems, but doesn't wear her corrective lenses regularly. There is another person that comes and goes regularly in this flat, and she is very fond of a certain group of young women. Also," he said, his back to me, "The color of her eyes has been changed from blue to a shade of brown. I shall not ask how you accomplished that." He was done, apparently. And waiting for a reply.

"Not bad. I don't wear the glasses because I have contacts, little bits of plastic that you put on over your corneas, and one of my clear ones ripped this morning. Brown was all I had left. I assume you got BU from the mug. The group of young women are my friends from high school, and the other person that comes in and out regularly is my brother Richard. And about the hair. I lost a bet. I had to go blond for a week and I died it back to natural. I am five three and a half actually. But other than that, you're right, as always."

"I believe it is your turn." Gulp. I settled in to try and tell him all about him, but the doorbell rang. I jumped up, forgetting about the very hot coffee that ended up on my lap. I rushed to the door, stupidly, and to my great relief, it was Pip, the one person who could show up at the most opportune time and make it look like accident.

"What happened to you? And who's _that_?" she asked, indicating Holmes. Pip and I had known each other since we were ten, when she moved into the house across the street form me. She had very long dark curly hair, and greenish gold eyes. It was her super computer that had brought Mr. Holmes into our lives, well, her and Frank…but that is another story entirely.

"Spilled coffee…third degree burns…take me to ER…other stuff…I'll tell you on the way." She nodded, and took my arm. I turned back to Holmes, who had come to his feet and was looking rather perplexed, and said, " I'm gonna lock you in, don't open the door for anybody, got that? Well, let me back in, obviously…oh you get the point!" I let Pip drag me down the elevator.


	2. Chapter the Second

Due to the incredible amount of reviews I got for the first chapter of this…thing…(ie, 3) I decided to put up chapter 2 a full week ahead of schedule. So here you go. Also, I have only three and a half chapters of this written, so if I don't get positive comments, I'm not going to write any more. Oh, and I don't own Holmes, but I do own everybody else, and the plot, such as it is.

Chapter 2

"So who is that?" Pip asked me on the way back from the BU Wellness center. We hadn't gone to the ER because, as Pip pointed out, we would spend a lot more time in line and get the same results: some burn cream and an RN who told me, only barely stifling a laugh, to try not to spill any more hot liquids on myself.

"_That_ is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Your field worked, Pip!" she turned to look at me, wide-eyed with disbelief. I grabbed the wheel as she swerved into the other lane. Pip wasn't exactly the best driver in the world, but she was my best friend, so I would live with it. "Pip, DRIVE!" she'd taken her foot off the gas and there was a whole line of cars behind us, the drivers of which were getting very angry.

"I-it worked? Like for real? This isn't just one of your oh-so-funny pranks is it? Because, Lizzy, if it is, I am gonna kill you sooo many times!" she was still looking at me instead of at traffic, and it was starting to make me nervous.

"Pip, eyes on the road! Yes, it's for real, or at least, if it isn't, I'm not in on the plot. If it isn't, this guy is the best actor of all times. Besides, I wouldn't prank you ever again. I remember what you did to me last time." I shuddered. She'd beaten me with a book until I begged for her to stop. All I did was tell Frank that she was madly in love with him…not that bad, right?

"Wow, can I come over tomorrow and talk to him? I want to know how the experiment went, you know, transcription error wise. Does he look alright?" she was looking at the road again, so I relaxed marginally.

"Yeah, sure, come over whenever. You could stay now if you want. And as to how he looks…" I trailed off and she got the point. Mr. Holmes was an attractive man, that was all I had seen, and Pip knew it.

Sure enough, she rolled her eyes at me. "Whatever. You know I would stay tonight, but he has the couch, I'm assuming, and I have a dorm curfew. So, sorry, but I'm just gonna drop you at the street door and go so I don't get in trouble. I'll be there bright and early tomorrow. Don't you worry."

She dropped me off with the promise of coffee that I couldn't spill on myself, and something with chocolate in it for breakfast. I shook my head at how well Pip knew me and knowing I wouldn't see her again for at least two days (That was just the way Pip worked.) and went up to my apartment.

Which was empty. Holmes was gone. I stood in the doorway for just a moment, then went in. I left the door unlocked, just in case he decided to come back, and set myself up in front of my fireplace with a good book and a warm blanket, trying to invite sleep.

Several hours later, I woke up to the sound of the door opening. I looked over at Holmes, and jumped to my feet. His face was bruising from a beating: one eye black already, and blood oozing from a cut on his lip. The cheekbone opposite his black eye would be a wonderful shade of purple in the morning, but now it was just red and swollen.

"Your first night in Boston and you get mugged. That's just great." I hurried to the kitchen to try and find something to put on his eye. I am a vegetarian, but seeing as how my brother ate here a lot, there was usually a steak or two in the freezer. Holmes was in luck; there was only one. I came out, pinching the bit of dead cow between two fingers. I tossed it to him, and, not surprisingly, he caught it.

"Brass duckels." He muttered, not looking at me. His voice was thick, as if he were talking through a throat cold. Or a broken nose. Wonderful.

"Pardon me?" I stood over him; he looked like he was hurting.

"Brass duckles." He mimed with his hands. Knuckles, I got it. Poor baby. I ruffled his hair, just like I did for the kids I babysat when they got hurt. He looked up at me, startled. And I couldn't move. Or breathe. Nope, no transcription errors there, folks. Just endless gray eyes, spiraling down into eternity…One of his hands reached out, almost touched my (burning, I'm sure) cheek, but he checked himself at the last moment, and looked down at his hands, both of them back in his lap. I backed away hastily, not knowing what just happened, and not sure I didn't want it to happen again. Oh dear. What had I gotten myself into?

The next morning, I didn't stagger out of my room until four in the afternoon. Holmes was still asleep on the pull out, his face a puffy rainbow. I shook my head at him for what would have to be the thousandth time in a day and went into the kitchen to try and make coffee, the normal way. I did my best to be quiet, but I knew I woke him up. I was never very good with a coffeepot, preferring instant coffee. However, we had finished it off last night. But I digress.

Holmes stumbled into the kitchen ten minutes after I did, and sat down stiffly on one of my barstools pulled up to the island in the middle of a white tile sea. I added several bruised or cracked ribs to my mental list of his injuries. The guy went out at two in the morning, in a city that he'd never been in before. It really wasn't a big surprise that he'd gotten mugged. Whoever it was probably beat him more when they didn't see any American cash, as well. Poor guy; he really didn't know when to stay inside.

"Miss James," I came back to earth when I heard my name, as if he had said it several times.

"Hmmm?" I was _still_ trying make the coffee pot work, and I wasn't really paying attention to him.

"I believe there is someone at the door. D'you need any help with that?" he stood as he asked, and looked over my shoulder at my feeble attempts at making it work.

"Knock yourself out. I'll go get the door…it's probably Pip, anyway." I turned to get around him, and got trapped by his eyes again. I couldn't move. The doorbell rang again, and I couldn't do a thing about it. All I could do was stand there and look up at him, and try my very best to breathe. He seemed to be having the same problem that I was, for he was just standing there in front of me, in his bloody shirt (mental note: wash his cloths), looking down at me like it was the only thing in the world he could do. He ripped his gaze away in the next instant, two spots of colour riding high in his pale cheeks. I took several deep breaths and went to let whoever it was in.

It wasn't Pip. It was my brother, Richard. Great. I really didn't need this right now. Richard was one of those people who thought he had to 'protect his little sister at all costs'. He actually said something like that to me once. I think being a cop made that instinct more pronounced. Richard pulled me into the customary bear hug that meant he wouldn't be staying, and said,

"Hello, Lizzybell! Did you just get up? I should have called, shouldn't-" he stopped as Holmes came out of the kitchen, to the sounds of coffee percolating. Richard's eyes narrowed, and he pulled me half behind him, growling, "Who are you and what are you doing in my sister's house?"

"My apologies if this looks inappropriate, but your sister has graciously allowed me to stay with her until such time that I may return home. I am Sherlock Holmes." This mini-speech was delivered in his best and most sincere upper class, overeducated accent. He stuck out a long hand to shake and met frosty silence.

Richard turned to look at me. "You let some freak escapee from a theater guild stay in your house?!? What is wrong with you?" he shouted at me. I pushed him away, and moved in front of Holmes.

"He is not a freak escapee from anything, Richard, and if you ever call me 'Lizzybell' again, you go through a window. He really is who he says he is. Remember what Pip was experimenting with?" blank look. "The quantum computer?" blank look. I took a deep breath and let it out evenly. "_Time travel?_" he nodded, and I relaxed, just a bit. "Well, it worked. Mr. Holmes here walked through a field. An electromagnetic field that shot him forward in time a hundred or so years, and he ended up in front of the store. So I took him home until we could figure out what to do with him, you know, to send him home."

Richard reluctantly nodded again, and I relaxed entirely. My overprotective brother would not, now, try and murder my houseguest. Richard shook the hand that was again offered, and I went back to the kitchen to see what the guy that hadn't ever been in a modern kitchen made of the coffee sitch. Surprisingly enough, he'd done it right, and the coffee was really good, if a bit strong. And there was plenty for three people. (Even if Pip did show up, she didn't drink coffee, so we would be set).

I brought it out on a tray, so I would have less opportunity to spill it all over myself, and flopped into my chair. They were talking about police work and how it had changed from the 1890's to the 2000's. I picked up the book that I had abandoned last night (or rather, this morning) and ignored them. Or appeared to. What I was really doing was eavesdropping.

"Blah blah, forensic science, blah blah, shoddy police work, blah blah, Jack the Ripper, blah blah, consulting detective" that's where I started to pick up the thread of conversation for real.

"Yes, I am a consulting detective," Holmes said, rather proudly. "Why do you ask?" he was curious rather than cautious.

"You see," my brother the police inspector said, "We have this case down at the station that isn't going so well. Nobody has any leads, and we're all afraid something really bad is going to happen. You wouldn't be interested in helping out, would you?" he was trying not to sound too hopeful, but he'd never been much of an actor.

"I should love to. It will be a challenge, and a way to earn my keep around here. I dislike the notion of imposing upon your sister." He lowered his voice for that last bit, so I had to strain to overhear it. I rather liked his sense of chivalry, and the fact that he was trying to be a gentleman. It was a nice change from the normal guys one found in this day and age.

"Don't worry about it. It's dad's apartment, he's just letting her live he- oh my God, Liz, I forgot to tell you. Mom said she was coming for dinner tonight. That's why I came, to warn you." He looked rather apoligetic, as well he should. My mother and I did not get along. At all. It was the same with Richard and dad, they just clashed. Of course, they were both worse after the divorce, using us as pawns in their never-ending chess game. The objective was not to win, but to inflict as much pain on the opponent as possible. Thus, dad got this killer apartment for me, to spite mom. Mom, in retaliation, got Richard a killer apartment five blocks down. It would only end when one of them died. Which would not be soon. This was not a problem that I wanted to deal with today. She would flip when she found Holmes. I couldn't very well send him off with Richard, because there would be no guarantee that he would come back in one piece. And, mom would only tear him apart verbally, whereas with Richard's friends, it would be physical. Some very quick thinking was in order here, my friends.

"Ok, here's what we're gonna do:" I began, knowing full well that I sounded like a football coach and not caring a whit. "Richard, you will go home _very quickly_ and bring back something halfway decent for him to wear. Something nice, Richard, with a tie. You do have a tie, don't you? I will start…something…that will make mom happy. And I should probably get dressed." I looked down at myself and realized that I should probably have done so before coming out into the living room. It wasn't that I was indecent, but then, I wasn't a Victorian. I didn't have a problem with flannel boxers and a tank top, but then, as I looked back over the hour I'd been up and moving around, Holmes hadn't been able to look me in the face. Except that one time in the kitchen… This would really take some getting used to.

I hugged my brother good bye and went to survey my wardrobe for something that would make my mother happy. After long deliberation (ie, ten minutes), I settled on a long black A-line skirt and a light blue blouse. I grabbed hair sticks and a towel, and headed to the bathroom to shower. On the way to the bathroom, I happened to catch site of Holmes sitting on the couch, looking lost. Leaving the bundle in my arms in a heap on the floor, I went over to him and sat next to him on the couch.

"You okay?" I asked him quietly.

He turned to me, and tried to smile. "I am just a bit dazed. I take it I am to meet your mother?" As a tactic to change the subject, my mother was the best.

"Yeah, and I apologize in advance for whatever she says to you. My mother is not a very nice woman. But you'll find that out for yourself. All we have to figure out now is what to tell her. I think our best bet is just to say you're my boyfriend, and just throw all the sheets from the couch in my room. She'd believe that, I think." I didn't like the idea of making a guy I just met lie to my mother, much less about our relationship, but what else could I do? If he didn't want to do it, I would just have to tell my mom that he was gay or something. I looked a question at him.

"Just what exactly does being 'your boyfriend' include?" he was looking at me strangely, and it was hard to breathe again. I swallowed hard.

"Um…I suppose it amounts to about the same thing as being courted…except, in most cases, things move faster." I was blushing like mad by then, and I couldn't look him in the face at all. I didn't know what he would think. I was waiting for the acidic remark that would out me well and truly in my place when I heard,

"I believe that would be a worthy expenditure of time for an evening. What will I be expected to do?" there was humor in his voice, as if he would be enjoying himself this evening. Oh boy. Keep in control here Liz.

"Um…I donno. Tell my mother…that we've been seeing each other for a couple weeks…and we met at the store…and I donno. Just make it up as you go along I guess. D'you think you can do that?" I was stammering like an idiot and I still couldn't look him in the eye.

"Yes I do. Didn't you have something to do?" his voice was gentle, and I still heard that humor. He really was a nut. But he was right; I needed to get in the shower.

"Yep. You get the shower when Richard gets back. When I get out, I will work on dinner." It sounded like a plan that would work. One always needed a plan to get by my mother.

I shut the bathroom door behind myself and leaned against it. This would be an interesting time. After knowing the guy for a grand total of eight or nine waking hours, I felt something for him. I didn't know what, at the time, only that this could not be good. Oh well, Pip and Frank would find a way to get him home soon anyway. So it didn't really matter, right?

I took my hair down from the knot I had it in to sleep and shook it out. My hair was very long, reaching my waist in dark brown, bone straight locks. My hair was my favorite thing about myself, but all my friends were trying to get me to cut it. I shook my head, at myself this time, and got in the shower. I had two hours before my mother would arrive and the fun would start.

Richard had come through with cloths for Holmes while I was in the shower. I came out with my wet mop of hair down my back (getting the back of my shirt wet) just as he was leaving. Holmes looked up at me over the pile of new clothing. "Your turn. Pull the handle up to make the shower work." He nodded silently and went into the steamy bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

I went into the kitchen to see what I could do for a short notice dinner. I had vegetarian lasagna that I immediately threw in the oven. Okay. Main course a go. I had the stuff for a tossed salad, so that would be first…now for dessert…hmmm. What could I make in an hour and a half with one egg and no sugar? A phone call to Pip and a bakery, that's what!

After I was assured that a cheese cake was on the way, I set to my hair. It was the one thing that my mother didn't put down every time she saw me, so I usually went to great lengths to make it look nice. I twisted the mass into a thick rope at the nape of my neck, then twisted it around itself until it was a lumpy bun. I then pulled out the lumpy bun into the perfect figure eight that it always made, and stuck the blue-tipped wooden hair sticks into the mass. Presentable. I smiled at myself in the mirror and went about applying the necessary makeup: a touch of eyeliner (blue, to match both my eyes and the shirt) and a bit of tinted lip-gloss. I turned to go and check on dinner and shrieked. Holmes was standing in the doorway to my room, watching me put my face on.

"My God, what are you doing? Trying to give me a heart attack?!" I looked daggers at my house guest.

"I apologize; I did not mean to startle you, I was mearly wondering if you would assist me with this…" he trailed off, holding up a black silk tie. Richard had done well with the clothing, and the outfit fit him well, as Holmes and my brother were nearly the same size. Black pants crisp from the starch, and a dark red button-down shirt. The black tie would tie the whole thing together very nicely, if you will forgive the pun.

I turned his collar up and slid the length of silk around his neck, tying the knot quickly. I set his collar back to rights and smoothed the front of his shirt before I remembered that this wasn't my brother I was helping get ready for the annual police ball, but Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and time traveler extrordenare. I gulped, frozen yet again by the intensity of his gaze. All I had read about the world's first and most famous consulting detective lead me to believe that he was cold and completely emotionless. From what I had seen, and admittedly it was not much, he was anything but cold. In fact, the intensity of the heat that was coming off of him was beginning to burn me. I wanted to step away, wanted to step closer and…there my thoughts ended, because I didn't know what would happen if I let him under my guard, and I sensed that he was thinking the same thoughts. Apparently, he'd come to some conclusion, because he looked away then, and I could move again.

I got out of that room as fast as I could, trying my best to still my beating heart. I should just get him an apartment of his own, that's what I really should do, but I couldn't. I didn't want him to be gone. I was a mess, leaning against the fridge with my hands over my face, trying to think.

"Miss James?" his voice was hesitant, as if he thought I would bite his face off, or something.

I straightened, taking a deep breath. "Yeah? And please, call my by my name. This 'Miss James' nonsense is driving me crazy."

"As you wish, Elizabeth. I wanted to apologize again for startling you…I did not mean for…I am sorry. I am usually more collected than this. I- do you need any help?" he seemed very flustered. I felt bad, then. He had probably never been in this situation before. Women in his time weren't as pushy as I was and it must have been throwing him off kilter.

"It's okay. No, I'm good in here. If you would just watch the door for Pip, that would be a great help. She's bringing over cheese cake for dessert." At the mention of cake, a light jumped into his eyes and I laughed. "Have a sweet tooth, Mr. Holmes?" I asked, poking him in the side. He blushed, nodded, and went back into the living room. Which still needed to be stripped of linens. "Uum, could you just throw the sheets and stuff in my room for me please?" I yelled into the living room. I received no answer, but heard him taking apart the makeshift bed. I went into the room just as he was putting the cushions back on the couch. Holmes was adapting to this life rather well.

Pip arrived then, with the cake, but had to run, promising a longer visit tomorrow. My mother followed close on her heals and my evening of hell began.


	3. Chapter the Third

Chapter 3

My mother was in my house for all of one hour. She was there just long enough to cut me to ribbons, while simultaneously pretending she was being a good mother. Sounds impossible, right? Not for my mother. But let me tell this from the beginning.

The bell rang at five thirty exactly. I ran to the door, pausing to take a deep breath before opening the door to Emily Elizabeth James_ nee_ O'Conner. She was two full inches shorter than I was, put pushed her height up by wearing huge stilettos. She was dressed in a modest black skirt suit, her short red (dyed) hair combed and styled, with not a wisp out of place. She was, in a word, immaculate. She came in and kissed my cheeks European style, smiling her plastic smile of death. She turned to Holmes, and waited to be introduced like a shark waits to feed. _Shudder._

"Mom, " I began, trying not to betray how nervous I really was. "This is my boyfriend-" I stopped, panicked. We hadn't come up with a pseudonym, and if I introduced him as Sherlock Holmes, she would just tear in even faster. Holmes, quick thinking as always, stepped neatly to fill the gap, much to my relief.

"Scott Holmes, a pleasure to meet you, madam." He kissed her hand, just as he had done upon introducing himself to me. _We may just pull this off yet!_ I thought, trying to keep the mood up.

"Charmed, I'm sure." She said to Holmes, obviously tickled by his good manners. Then she turned on me. "Elizabeth, darling," she began, sitting down on the sofa and looking around the living room like she hadn't been there a million times before. "Aren't you _ever_ going to redecorate this hideous room? Really, dear, I am beginning to be worried about your sense of taste!" she laughed, as if she had made a joke.

"I _like_ the furniture, Mom. I tell you that every time you come here." I smiled back, as if this was pleasant banter, instead of an attack on me personally, which it was. Holmes seemed to notice and went to stand behind me, settling his hands on my (very tense) shoulders, letting waves of reassurance flow into me.

"Very well, but at least let me take you shopping, I'll update your wardrobe for you; you dress as if you were still in High School." She was still smiling at me.

"Mom. I dress the way I want to dress." This was going to be a long night.

Dinner went the same way, her picking apart every aspect of my life, from my being a vegetarian, to the way my kitchen was cleaned, to the coffee I served after dinner, to my shoes, to the fact that I couldn't manage to bake something in the two hours I had to prepare. She chattered away, mostly to Holmes (who was unfailingly polite the entire time, so she left him alone completely; apparently she approved of him) when it became obvious that I would not rise to her bait. I just sat there in silence, picking at my cheesecake, as she shredded my life, and tried to hold back the tears that were threatening to ruin my makeup.

Finally, she left. She was probably sick of pushing her cake around and getting no results from me. According to Richard, dad did the same thing to him, but I just couldn't see my father being so mean. Holmes and I walked her to the door; she said good bye to Holmes, saying that he was a nice boy, and she couldn't imagine what he was doing with me. Then it was my turn.

"Good bye, Elizabeth dear. Perhaps next time, you will be more…grown up. Good night!" she flashed another smile, then was gone. It was seven thirty one.

I took a huge shuddering breath, and went to the window. Throwing off my slippers in favor of the beat up sneakers that were laying under the sill, I threw open the window and started to climb out.

"Elizabeth! What are you doing?" Holmes' sharp question stopped my halfway out the window. He probably thought I was going to jump.

I turned my now damp face to him and sniffled, "I am going to sit on the fire escape." He relaxed; he _had_ thought I was jumping.

"It is snowing," he pointed out, looking out of the window I was trying to climb through.

"What's your point?" with that, I hiked up my skirt and stepped out onto the metal grating to think about how horrible my mother was.

I sat on the step of the apartment above me and let my face drop into my hands and I sobbed. This was as much ritual concerning my mother as letting her rip me to pieces and not saying anything was. My makeup was freezing in tear-tracks down my face, and I was halfway to becoming a human snowdrift when I heard the window open again. I looked up into Holmes' face and was surprised at the concern on his features. Although, I suppose, he could just have been worried that the woman he was living with was crazy. And I was crazy for sitting out on the fire escape at the end of December in the snow. "Yes?" I sniffed, my shoulders shaking with emotion as well as with the cold.

"This is madness." He muttered to himself as he climbed out and sat next to me. He draped the afghan from the back of the chair over my shoulders (after having brushed off the snow) and asked, "How do you deal with…that?"

I laughed, pulling the blanket closer around my shoulders. "Like this. But I've never had company before."

"Do you wish me to leave?" he asked quietly, avoiding my eyes.

"No, no, that's not what I meant. It's just…" I stopped, unable to articulate my feelings.

He chuckled softly. "Believe it or not, I do know what you're going through." I arched an eyebrow full of suspicion. "My father is the same way. He hated my career choice, and is making it his last crusade to make my life at Baker Street miserable." He fell silent, amazed at how much he said to someone who was still a stranger to him. Or, at least, that's what I would have been thinking, had I been in his place.

"Looks like we've got more in common than we thought, eh Holmes?" I elbowed him in the ribs, causing him to wince. Oops. I'd forgotten. "Oh, God, Holmes, I'm so sorry…I forgot" I finished lamely. He smiled tightly at me and suggested that we go inside and finish off the coffee left from dessert. Quite the caffeine addict, our Mr. Holmes. Not that I had any room to talk at all.

Ever the gentleman, Holmes insisted upon helping me back through the window, bruised ribs and all. I flung my arm around his…waist because I couldn't reach his shoulders…and walked with him back into the kitchen. Coffee poured and cheesecake cut, we walked arm and arm back into the living room, plopping down on the couch in front of the TV. Or, well, I plopped. He just sat like a normal person. I flicked on the television, and the old movie channel popped up.

Side note: I was an old movie addict. I'd seen just about every movie made before 1960, and every Hepburn (Katherine or Audry) movie ever made. Back to our story.

__

The Philadelphia Story had just begun. Seeing as it was my favorite movie, I settled back into the squishy couch to watch. Holmes sat back as well, watching the moving pictures with curiosity. "What is going on? What _is_ that thing?" he asked, gesturing at the TV.

"Umm," I began articulately. "It's a television. And what you're watching is a movie…moving picture…like a play in a box. I'll have Pip explain it to you better tomorrow, if she shows up."

He blinked several times, before accepting the truncated explanation. "What is happening, then?"

Assuming he meant the plot, I launched into the movie. "Okay, she," I pointed to Hepburn's character, "Was married to Carry Grant, but they got divorced because he was an alcoholic. Now, she's gonna marry that guy," I pointed to the man by the horse as the picture faded out of the mansion and into the inside of a newspaper office. "Jimmy Stewart and that girl next to him are going to go to the wedding and do an article for the society page, with help from Carry Grant, because he wants revenge on Katherine. Of course, being a thirties movie, everybody ends up with who they're supposed to, and it ends with this spectacular stage kiss. Really, it's one of the best I've seen, and I've seen them all." I looked over at him; he'd been sucked into the movie before I'd even gotten to the part about Jimmy Stewart. I would make an old movie fan of him yet! Although…for him, they wouldn't really be old…

We watched the movie the whole way through, side by side, with me tearing up at the end like I always did at the end of _The Philadelphia Story. _Holmes silently handed me a handkerchief that he had somewhere on his person as the credits rolled. "So, what did you think?" I asked eagerly.

"It was most amusing." He dismissed my favorite movie of all times with one flat phrase. Men.

"That's it? 'Most amusing'? Come on, it was…amazing!" I'd unconsciously turned toward him, my hands stretched out, palms up, in a gesture of entreaty. I realized, belatedly, that that speech, such as it was, was delivered with way too much emotion than was necessary for a thirties movie. Even a Hepburn movie.

Evidently, Holmes agreed, for he turned to me, one eyebrow raised. "Do you always speak with so much passion, or is it reserved for these 'plays in a box' of yours?" he asked me, a touch of amusement colouring his accented voice.

"It's not the movie itself, but what it represents." I mumbled, looking away from that piercing gaze. "I want my life to follow along those lines. Well, " I went on to add hastily, "Not the alcoholism/ divorce thing. Just that spectacular kiss and the happily ever after." I finished quietly. Still not looking at him, I stood, stretching. I tried to stifle a jaw-cracking yawn, and said, "I'm going to bed. D'you think you can manage the sheets by your self?" I asked, for nonchalance.

"I think that, perhaps, I can make up a bed without hanging myself. I _have_ made it this far in life without damaging incident." He replied acidly.

Well and truly put in my place, I slunk to my room, throwing his sheets out into the living room before slamming the door.


	4. Chapter the Fourth

I'm sorry this has taken so long, but the first Chapter 4 disappeared off of my hard drive. This is a rewrite, and if anyone finds any mistaked, please let me know in a review!

Chapter 4

Pip woke me up the next morning, or rather, just later the same morning. Always a morning person, our Pip. She came baring breakfast, which was in her favor when I wrenched the door open and glared bleary-eyed at my friend.

"What time is it?" I muttered as she pushed by me and into my apartment. I heard her moving around in the kitchen, and hoped she was making coffee. If you haven't picked up on it yet, I did not function well with out that liquid in my body. But I digress.

"Eleven thirty," was the calm reply from the kitchen. I looked at Holmes, whose head had popped over the top of the couch and shrugged. He raised a brow at me, then stood, making his way to the shower. "There's a bag of clothes from Richard on the floor in my bedroom," I told him as he went out, carefully looking anywhere but at me. I looked down at myself: black Tee-shirt with the New York skyline and a pair of boxers that featured Eeyore. I rolled my eyes at him, and went to join Pip, all the while muttering about Victorians and their ridiculous mannerisms.

"So what are you going to do about him?" Pip asked me, jerking her head in the direction of the bathroom.

"What do you mean? I can't _do_ anything until you and Frank can figure out how to get him back to where he came from. Or should I say 'when' he came from?" To be honest, I hadn't thought about what I was going to do with Holmes. I just figured that he'd live on my couch until he got a job or walked through another field. Apparently, that wasn't a good enough a plan of action.

"So, you're going to let him go when Frank and I can fix it?" Pip fixed me with that patented 'yeah-right-whatever' look of hers and waited for my answer.

Which had to be yes. I couldn't very well keep him here against his will could I? And why would I even want to? It wasn't like I _liked_ him or anything. Except that I couldn't breathe when he looked at me sometimes. And he was nicer to me than any of my old boyfriends were. Oy yey. But I couldn't do any less than the right thing, so when the time came, I would smile and wave as he walked back through the field that would send him back home to the people he loved and the job that he did so well. And if I came back to my apartment and cried myself out, well, it would be in the privacy of my own fire escape, so who would know?

I looked back at Pip and said very quietly, "Of course." She said nothing, and if she guessed at the internal dialogue that caused such unexpected pain, she kept it to herself all these years. Instead, she looked up at the doorway and grinned. I spun in my chair and faced Holmes, who looked just a bit ridiculous in the borrowed jeans and pullover.

They were both looking at me like I should be doing something instead of sipping coffee in my PJ's. I looked right back at them, or well, back at Pip because I can't look at two people at once, and she rolled her eyes disgustedly at me. Going over my head and speaking to Holmes, she said,

"Hello, I'm Pip Farmington, a friend of Lizzy's. I'm afraid that your being here is rather my fault…we were supposed to be doing the experiment that brought you here in an abandoned alleyway…we must have miscalculated…I'm awfully sorry about that…" She stuck out a hand to shake (I could have warned her that that wasn't what was going to happen, but she didn't look at me) and found him kissing it in the next instant. She blushed scarlet to the roots of her hair. I snorted into my coffee. Holmes looked at me weird and went on with the conversation.

"Miss Farmington, all is forgiven." He began magnanimously. "While I may have been rather angry when I first arrived," I interrupted with a snort and he glared at me. Again. "I now regard this as nothing more than a lesson on human nature. At some point today, Miss Elizabeth's brother is going to contact me with a problem that the local constabulary is finding trying, and I shall do my best to aid them. This will be an experience I shall never forget, for better or worse." His words were impressive, and seemed to reassure Pip. I would imagine that she wouldn't be thrilled at breaking the space-time continuum, and his casual brush off of what had happened was exactly what she needed to hear. She scooped up my laptop and asked if he would like the technical side of what had happened to him. He, of course, said that he would.

"Ok, here's what happened. Frank owned up and told me that he was playing dice with his roommate on the same table as my laptop," she stopped and gestured to my own, which was sitting in her lap. He nodded. "I had been working on this program that would make it possible to move through time as you move through space." Holmes' eyebrows rose, but he didn't interrupt. "Well, the short version of it is that Frank dropped the dice on the keyboard in a pattern that I hadn't tried before. You see, I hadn't been able to make the machine work before this. The pattern, which is 9 on the number pad, 'Q', and 'H' all at the same time and with the same amount of pressure applied to each, was the key to getting the program to function correctly. That created the electromagnetic field that you walked through. If the program had been working exactly as I had designed it to, you would have landed in Frank's dorm room. The reason you didn't is because Frank spilled his Sprite on the laptop when he realized what he'd done, which shorted out the entire thing. So now my computer is fried, and I cant get you back until I fix the program and the computer. Sorry." She finished in one breath and waited for the explosion that she'd obviously expected.

In stead, he asked her simply, "Do you think you will be able to send me home?" he glanced at me while he was saying this, and I shrugged, not knowing what he wanted of me.

"Yes, absolutely." Pip told him, obviously relieved. "I just don't know when."

"Well I shall just have to be satisfied with that. As it happens, more time will be helpful if I am to help Richard solve his case." He glanced at me again, and I swear I saw him wink. The Great Detective was certainly unbending in this environment.

Pip cut through my thoughts with, "Can I take yours?"

"My laptop? Yeah, go for it. Just don't let Frank spill soda on mine, ok?" Pip smiled and packed up the computer. "Your going now?" I asked, surprised. Pip was the biggest Sherlock Holmes groupie I'd ever met; I was sure she would be using every moment she got with him to pump him for information.

"Yeah, I need to get this problem fixed as soon as possible. Ta." With that, Pip swept out of my apartment, leaving Holmes and me alone again.

"Well," I said, trying to break the silence that had somehow become awkward, "I hope Richard gets here soon; I want to know what case Mr. Bigshot cop cant handle by himself."

Holmes only looked at me, saying, "Indeed."


	5. Chapter the Fifth

Right, so…sorry this is so late, and to all who've stuck with this through the year or so without updates, thank you! As for the disclaimer, technically Holmes is public domain, and as I own the plot and the characters…but don't sue me anyway. "And then there were none"/ "Ten Little Indians" is the property of the Agatha Christy estate.

Chapter 5

My brother was late. Richard was never late for anything and I was starting to worry. Holmes was watching me as I paced around my living room thinking about all the terrible things I was sure happened to him when the bell rang. I all but leapt to the door and wrenched it open. Richard stood there, new lines etched into his young face and pale under his dark hair. He took one step into my apartment and swept me up in a huge bear hug.

"Oh my God, Richard, what happened?" I asked hysterically, my words muffled in his shoulder. He let me go and we sat, Holmes joining us at my gesture, around the table in the living room. Holmes took the big chair and Richard sat next to me on the couch, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze.

"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, Liz, but Sam's dead," he told me bluntly. I blinked as the bottom dropped out of my stomach. Sam Johnston was the lead in the play the College's drama society was putting on, "Ten Little Indians." He was…_had been_, I reminded myself sharply and tried to swallow through the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat. My thoughts turned immediately to the production staff, thinking how hard it would be to replace him this close to the performance that was only a month and a half away. I thought that it would take that long at least to re-work his wardrobe to whoever they got to replace him. I thought about what a mess the next rehearsal would be…

"Elizabeth!" I came back to reality at the sound of my name being shouted in my ear. Both Richard and Holmes were looking down at me…wait…when did I fall? I looked around and saw the floor under my bum and the side of the couch to my right. Holmes reached down to help me back up and I let him pull me back up onto the couch. "Liz," Richard started again, "I need you not to go back to the theatre until we get this cleared up."

"What do you mean 'cleared up'? What does Sam's…accident have to do with the theatre, aside from the cast going ballistic and having to replace him last minute?"

"That's the thing. It wasn't so much an accident. The killer left a note."

"What do you mean, a note? Like one of those cliché 'Ha ha you can't catch me' notes?" I asked desperately, trying in vane to make some sort of joke out of this, if only to alleviate the roaring in my ears.

Richard shook his head slowly. "Nothing so easy, I'm afraid. Someone really has it in for your theatre department. The note said, basically, that unless the show was canceled, he'd kill off the players."

"Was the show ended, then?" Holmes asked, his steepled fingers against his mouth, eyes closed, and leaning back in his chair. If one of my best friends hadn't just died, I would have laughed at how totally in character he was.

"No. I went to the director, but he said, quote, 'The show must go on'." Richard looked disgusted, but I snorted; it was exactly what I would have expected from Matt, our director. Both men looked at me and I shut up, looking down. "I tried to reason with him," Richard continued. "But the idiot wouldn't listen to me. It's set to open in a month and he said he was opening auditions for a new lead tomorrow. After the memorial, of course," he added sarcastically. "So Lizzy, you are to stay away from this program until Mr. Holmes and I clear this up."

I blinked at my brother for a moment, making sure he was serious before I ripped his head off. "Richard, you aren't Dad. I'll do what I want, thank you. And I can hardly leave them to fend for themselves. There're two other women on that cast, and neither of them can do anything with a needle and thread. They will need someone to re-work all the costumes Sam was going to wear," my voice broke, but I went on. "I have to go back. The show must go on, Rickie." I told my brother quietly. He narrowed his eyes at me and then turned to Holmes with a 'Help me' look.

Not at all surprisingly, he picked up on it and came in on my brother's side. "I quite agree with your brother, Elizabeth. You ought not to put yourself in undue danger, especially if no one really knows who this killer really is." For one of the smartest people in literary history, this was a pretty weak argument. I looked at him, confusion probably written plainly on my face. His left eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly, and so I kept my mouth shut.

"See? Stay away, Liza, please. I don't want you getting hurt." I looked back at my brother, pursing my lips for a moment before I told him,

"I'm sorry, Richard, but I have to. I won't leave them now."

He glared at me for a bit, then said, "This is ridiculous. Do what you want and if you get shot or killed don't come crying to me." he got up, telling Holmes tersely to get in touch with him if he thought he could help the force. The detective nodded, and I didn't get up to see him out.

As soon as the door shut, I turned to Holmes. "So what's your plan?"

Instead of answering, he got up and began pacing. "I begin to re-think this. You really ought not to get yourself mixed up in this,"

"Oooh no. don't you start on me too. You aren't my father either." I interrupted angrily.

"I am fully aware of that fact, thank you," he told me, catching my eyes and holding them so I could barely breathe until he blinked and I looked away. "But I see that I cannot keep you out, so I will stop protesting. Perhaps you would be happier to be of use?" I nodded, afraid to look into his eyes because I didn't trust myself anymore. "I am going to audition for this role. It will be easier to find the suspect if I am in close proximity to the scene. It will also prove easier to protect any innocent people who happen to be in the way. I can, I assume, have a revolver on stage?" he looked at me again, and I didn't have time to look away. My neck flushed and I swallowed hard, still unable to look away from his grey eyes. He seemed just as flustered as I was; he broke the staring contest first.

"Yeah, yeah you have to at one point," I choked out, eloquently. He nodded once and plopped down next to me on the sofa. I felt my heart rate accelerate due completely to his new proximity, and tried hard to play it cool while having nasty flashbacks to middle school awkwardness.

"Do you have a script I might look at Elizabeth?" he asked pointedly, making me think he had some of the same awkwardness running though his mind as well. I jumped over the back of the couch to go for the ratty copy of the English play out of my room, thinking how these awkward moments would be happening more and more frequently. And somehow, I couldn't bring myself to mind all that much.

Ok…so the long awaited (I wish) chapter five is done. What did you think…mayhap you want to tell me in a review…:) PS keep in mind that this is not being beta'd at the moment, as my beta is in college in Pen and has about a billion years of Latin homework that takes priority...sorry!


	6. Chapter The Sixth

Chapter 6

Yeah…About the timing…Sorry. I'm terrible with updating and I don't have the Net when I'm home from college. That means I can write as much as I want, but I can't put anything up until I get back to school. So in any event, on to the new chapter.

PS Holmes is public domain, Elizabeth is her own person and "Ten Little Indians/And then there were None" is the property of the Agatha Christie estate. The show must go on.

True to theatre geek form, the entire cast and production staff turned up at Sam's funeral. The church was packed and no one in attendance needed theatrics to produce tears. At one point during the mass, I started to shred the handkerchief that I habitually carried around (something my mother had insisted on from childhood and the one habit she instilled that I could never break) in my black clad lap. Holmes took my hands, stilling their trembling as best he could. The service ended with a minor key flourish on the organ and the assembled mourners followed the priest and the body into the cemetery. Holmes kept my hand in his throughout the entire ordeal, lending his unwavering support with very little thought to the bruises I was sure I was leaving on his thin fingers.

It was finally over and, with unspoken agreement, the cast all met up at the theatre on campus for the open auditions that Matt had really scheduled for two hours after we'd seen Sam off. I sat behind Matt and his girlfriend (and assistant director) Liz to watch Holmes audition. He was reading a scene from the beginning, between Lombard and Vera, played by Kate, who didn't look particularly shaken up about Sam's… Anyway, after he got down off the stage, Liz hopped over the seats that separated us and plopped down next to me, leaning over and whispering in my ear, "Where did you dig this one up? He's amazing! Is he an exchange student?"

"Uh, yeah, yeah he is. He's in my Chem class and his apartment fell through so I offered to let him stay with me, in exchange for helping me pass Chem." It was a weak story, with waaay to many holes in it, but I had momentarily forgotten that one had to be enrolled at the college to audition for the productions that the drama society put on. Liz bought it without thinking about it which was rare for her, but she probably let it go because she wasn't about to let Holmes get away from her cast.

He came and sat next to me after he'd listened to Matt thank him for auditioning blah blah blah. His telltale eyebrow twitched when Liz jumped back over the seats to plop next to her boyfriend, and I turned my attention to Holmes.

"You were great!" I whispered at him, and it was true. The man was a born actor, slipping into and out of character with the ease of changing a hat. He'd look convincing in the costumes and he already had the accent that the rest of the cast was trying to affect, and hopefully would be able to give them a hint or two to help them not sound like a bad SNL sketch. The detective shrugged off my compliment, merely asking,

"Will I be cast, do you think?" he kept his voice low, not wanting the director and his girlfriend (who he'd been introduced to at Sam's funeral, and therefore knew who we were sitting behind) to hear.

"If Liz has anything to say about it, and she does, you will have that part. Richard will be so pleased. In any event, you'll have about a month to learn these lines and while we're home, I'll refit the costumes for you. It'll be a good time." He wisely ignored my macabre humor and focused on Liz, of all people.

"Other than being…involved…with the director, how do you know Liz?" I looked up at the stage before I answered and was privileged witness the beginning of one of the worst auditions I've ever been forced to watch, before or since. I stood up, still without answering my companion, and motioned him to do the same. While he was making his way out of the aisle like a normal person, I leaned over to whisper to Liz,

"We're heading to the Loft, call my cell when you know who you're casting."

Liz looked at Holmes, who'd introduced himself as Scott here as well, and wiggled her eyebrows at me. "Oww oww. Are you sure he isn't tutoring you in French?" I rolled my eyes at her, suppressing a smile. "Can you possibly be more cliché?" I whispered, jumping the seats in front of her to make it to the pit.

"Probably, do you want me to try?" She called after me, only to receive a rude gesture from me and an elbow in the ribs from Matt. The guy on stage didn't even miss a beat. I didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

I motioned for Holmes to follow me back stage. We crossed behind the curtain, as the auditions being held on the apron. I picked up a key off the props table as we passed and led him over to a rack of chairs. I proceeded to climb the chairs in order to reach a gray painted iron ladder that blended in well with the cement wall behind it. I had started climbing that, the heals of my shoes catching on the rungs, when Holmes finally spoke up.

"Is that entirely safe?" he didn't bother with keeping a sotto voice any longer.

"Not really, but it hasn't fallen down yet. Come on up." I got to the top (there were only twelve rungs) and unlocked the padlock that kept the trapdoor closed. I pulled myself through the small opening and stood, holding the door for Holmes. When he was standing next to me, I let the door fall and moved a bucked filled with sand over it, so we wouldn't have any interruptions.

The Loft was a wooden construction that hung about thirty feet over the stage left wing, and it was where the larger props, mostly furniture, were stored. The faded pink couch was to be avoided at all costs, as the key I had had been copied more times than anyone could count, and the Loft was used as a…place to go between classes when the dorms were too far to meet…certain needs. Holmes, predictably, went to sit on the couch, as it was closest. I grabbed his arm, steering him around the sofa to a pair of threadbare blue wingchairs that had been new when my mother was in high school. We sat and looked at him. "What do you want to know?" A slow smile spread across his thin face before he answered, "Everything." So I told him everything. I told him how I'd known Liz ever sense we were in the same English class freshman year of high school and the teacher never really figured out which one of us was which. I started going by Lizzy after that, to everyone but Liz herself, so no one would confuse us.

I went on to tell him everything I knew about the rest of the cast, which wasn't as much as he would have liked. I wasn't exactly the most social of people with the underclassmen that populated the cast of this particular show. I had just launched into an anecdote about how I'd seen the girl playing Emily Brent smoking something that wasn't a cigarette with the guy that played Marston, and what they'd done with a plastic chicken and fishing pole, when my cell went off. I flicked it open, knowing it was Liz. "Yes darling?"

"Cast list is posted on the doors to the auditorium," she told me, and hung up. I looked up at Holmes. "The game's afoot."

OK…I know it's been an unpardonably long time since the last update, and I'm sorry. But now that I'm back at college and my time is my own again, I should be able to get this thing finished in some sort of timely fashion. Review?

Anna


	7. Chapter the Seventh

Chapter 7

Right, so I know this has gone on too long without an update and I'm sorry. All credit for this update goes to my friend Nikki who never got off my bum about updating and to whomever was the fiftieth reviewer. Woot to the two of you! On with Chapter Seven.

No one was surprised that Holmes had gotten the part. Matt was thrilled that the lead was going to be so well played, and the two females in the cast (plus the entirely female stage crew) were drooling over the "hot English guy" that mysteriously showed up.

His ego swelled to match, making him almost impossible to live with. All I heard about for a week after he knew he got the part was how fabulous his audition was, didn't I think? And how he could be an actor if Pip didn't figure out how to send him back, and how this was going to be one of his best achievements yet. I pricked him with a pin after that one.

Let me set the stage for you. As he got the part, all Sam's costumes had to be refitted to him. As I was costume mistress, that fell to me. After dinner every night, he would run lines (he needed to be off book in two weeks, and Matt was a freak about having all lines word perfect) while I altered costumes. That particular night, I had him standing on the coffee table while I tried to let the hems out of the pants to make them long enough to not look ridiculous. He jumped when the pin found leg rather than charcoal colored cloth and glared down at me. I mumbled an apology through gritted teeth (I was trying not to laugh…and failing) which he didn't buy at all.

I really just couldn't resist poking the sleeping dragon in the eye. He was an egotistical jackass sometimes, and he needed to be deflated. "I've seen better you know." His head wiped around, and if looks could kill I would be toast. "Oh yeah. When we did _Rumors_ last semester, the boy that played Lenny was amazing. There was a talent scout in the audience; I think they're still in negotiation. He was the best I've ever seen." How I pulled that one off with a straight face I will never know. In reality, the boy that played Lenny in Neal Simon's _Rumors_ never actually learned his lines and had to adlib the entire show. It was terribly funny though.

"I shall have you know," he began, rather pompously, "That the director said I was one of the best he has ever seen. He said that, if I could sing, I should be able to make it on Broadway, whatever that means." He was still glaring down at me, the bright red script under his hawk-like nose, the ill fitting costume hanging from his boney shoulders, and I couldn't handle it any longer. I burst out laughing, spilling the pins I had in my lap all over the floor. He made a valiant effort not to join me in laughter, but after about a minute he had to climb down off the table because he wasn't steady on his feet anymore he was laughing so hard.

"Watch the pins," I choked out, trying to see through the tears streaming down my face to pick them up. He ignored me, probably sticking himself several more times around the ankles as he crawled around on hands and knees with me trying to get all the pins before my MIA cat (who was probably with Richard) stepped on them. I was tossing the pins (which were very small, by the way) into the huge red skirt I always wore while doing alterations. I'd made it myself while I was in high school for a Renaissance Fair, and it came in handy because it could hold about three thousand pins and scissors and a pin cushion and a tape measure and chalk. I got a look from Holmes when he first saw me in it, but he didn't actually say anything. I almost got the feeling that he approved. It was weird.

Anyway, I was throwing the pins back into my skirt, to put back into their little plastic box at a later date, but Holmes was piling them on the table. I swept them all into my skirt (really, it's easier that way) and stuck one into my finger, fairly deeply. I swore like a sailor and jerked the thin bit of metal out of my finger only to have it replaced by blood. Ok, I know I'm a klutz, but I was never this bad until I started living with Holmes. In one deft motion, he took all the pins from my lap (including the bloody one) and relocated them to the table and took my finger in his hand. There were tears pricking the corners of my eyes; it had never hurt that much before, but then I'd never managed to jam one halfway through my finger before. Leave it to me, I suppose. If I can spill scalding coffee on myself, I am open to any folly. As all this was going through my head, he was examining my hand. He stemmed the bleeding with a white handkerchief that he produced from nowhere and looked at me, holding me in place with his eyes. Again.

"Are you usually this prone to accidents?" His face was totally serious, but laughter gleamed from her eyes. I smacked him lightly on the shoulder with the hand he wasn't holding, and mumbled something to the effect of shut up. He laughed and took that hand as well, pulling me up. Of course, that left us in rather close proximity and I don't think he really thought that through. He shot me a deer in the headlights look and he squeezed me hands, pulling me half a step closer. I stopped breathing there for a second, and…

The bell rang.

I blinked, letting out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding and swore quickly in French before opening the door. Pip stood on the other side of it, looking disgustingly cheerful. She was holding my laptop and a bag of cookies that looked as if they'd been baked over a Bunsen burner flame. I just looked at her for a second; it was seven thirty at night and she hadn't called. This was unusual, even for Pip.

"You look flushed Lizzy," she said, pushing past me. "Are you alright? You don't have a fever do you? I know you don't like to wear a coat in the winter, but…" she looked at me, obviously waiting for an answer.

"Um," I said eloquently, trying to buy myself time. "I was sitting by the radiator." Wow. That was lame. And Pip knew it. And I knew that Pip knew it. But she didn't say anything, probably because she knew exactly why I was flushed.

Yup that was it. She glared at me for just a moment, before grabbing my elbow and dragging me into the kitchen, with a clipped hello to my houseguest. Pip deposited my computer on the counter and put the cookies on the table in front of us and started eating one. I did nothing. It was something like being grilled by my mother when I came in past curfew and smelling of liquor. Pip swallowed and started in on me.

"What did you do to Holmes?" Not one to mince words, our Pip.

"I didn't do anything! You came in at a most inopportune moment." I couldn't resist; I knew a _Pirates_ reference would irk her, especially when dealing with Holmes and a love life.

"Elizabeth! You know what I mean; did you slip him something?" I must have looked disgusted, because she felt she ought to elaborate on that one. "Well, you read the same stories I did. The only person he showed even the slightest interest in was Irene Adler, and that was only because she beat him. It just doesn't make sense that he's here making out with you in your living room, without so much as a by-your-leave."

I just looked at her. "How the hell long were you standing outside the door?" Pip blushed. Ok, long enough to hear the lead up then. "And to answer your question, I have no idea what's gotten into him. I did not drug him, Pip, and I can't believe that you would think that. My best guess is this: it's really obvious that now is a lot different from when he is from. What almost just happened would not be ok in Victorian London, but it's definitely ok here. Maybe he's just trying to fit in. Maybe he realized that nobody is as repressed as he is in the emotion department, and decided to act on his emotions for once, especially as I was certainly not going to shoot him down. Maybe repressed Victorian gentleman plus repressed Victorian lady doesn't equal sparks. I really don't know, Pip, but I'm going to go with it."

"Maybe he can hear you and he does not appreciate being spoken of behind his back." Holmes was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest and looking terribly stern. Pip and I were frozen with shock for…far longer when we ought to have been, and probably looking at him like rabbits caught in headlights. Pip recovered herself first, of course, and jumped up from her seat next to me at the table.

"Oh geez, look at the time. I must be going. Lovely to see you again, Mr. Holmes!" She bolted for the door and I heard it slam behind her about a second later. Which meant I was alone in the kitchen with an irate detective. An irate and emotionally repressed detective that had been about to kiss me twenty minutes ago and looked as though he would rather strangle me now. Great.

"Um," I tried, "Pip's right…It's bed time. Night!" I tried to push past him, but he caught me around the middle, forcing me back into the room. I sighed in defeat and sat back down. He joined me at the table a moment later.

"Must you speak of me as though I were not here?" Wow. He did the guilt trip thing better than my grandmother did.

"In our defense, we didn't think you could hear us. And you have to admit, it's interesting." He scowled at me. "Ook, maybe you don't. But try and see it from our point of view. You never wasted an opportunity to say how much you disliked the company of women, how you thought them the less intelligent of the sexes and how you would never marry, let alone get involved with a woman. Your behavior here has been a bit out of character."

I ventured a look up at his face after that speech. His lips were pressed together and his eyes were tired.

"You are right. But I have never met anyone quite like you before Elizabeth. You have a tendency to make me forget where I came from and live in the moment." He wasn't looking at me, which was just as well, as I am sure I resembled a tomato. "I think what you said about repression had merit. Perhaps we could, to borrow your phrase, just go with it?" He did look at me then, looking for an answer.

"That sounds good to me. But the break's over, my friend. You need to get your lines memorized and I need to get your costumes done so Matt doesn't kill us both. " I got up (again) and this time found no restraints on my leaving. He followed me, rather like a lost puppy, back into the living room and jumped back up onto the table, script in hand. I knelt at his feet, trying to get the hems of his pants to lay flat and pulled pins out as I stitched. I listened to the lines I nearly knew by rote as well, and the rest of two hours passed in relative ease.

After he changed out of the costume, that actually fit him like it was supposed to, we settled down on the couch with hot coco and popcorn and watched _Shrek._ He was amused by the animation, I think, but he told me later he "Preferred films that did not feature drawings dancing about." It was about midnight at that point, and I was nearly dead. I bowed out for bed, bringing the dishes into the kitchen. He caught up my hand when I passed the couch and kissed it, whishing me a sweet sleep. I blushed, returning the sentiment and fairly running to the safety of my room. I didn't sleep much that night, having waaaay too much to think about, regarding what would happen after the show, assuming Pip and her boyfriend could fix their program. I could not stand in the way of him going home. It was selfish and I couldn't do it. I would just have to live in the moment and burn that bridge when we got there. If we got there.

Ok. Sorry for the delay. Real Life reared its ugly head and I've been doing homework in all my spare time…oh how I love midterms in college. The last several chapters have gone up without benefit of a beta, but that has been remedied. All future chapters will be beta-read. _Rumors _is the property of Neal Simon, _Shrek_ belongs to some movie house or other, Holmes is public domain, and Pip and Anna are their own people. I just borrow them occasionally. Review?


	8. Chapter the Eighth

Chapter Eight

Apologies for the huge delay, but that pesky final exams for college game had to be played to the best of my ability, but now it's over and I my time is mine own again and I can do as I please. And what I please happens to be (finally) posting the next chapter to this wonderful story. However, I have a question for you readers: The way this is progressing, it may have a few similarities to one of the lower budget slasher movies of the early nineties. Not a lot of similarities, but they are there. The question to you, then, is what to do. Should I just write it as it stands or should I rework the end? The benefit to the former is that I have it most of the way done so the posts will be coming closer together than they have in the past. The benefit to the later is that it may end up being a better story. Or it may not; that remains to be seen. In any event, dear readers, I should like your opinions. On with the show!

We had two weeks. The show opened in two weeks. Rehearsals were running 'til midnight or later every night, so it was a good thing that the show was going up over Christmas break or none of us would be going to any of the morning classes we'd signed up for. I fell asleep in the audience with Liz more than once, to be rudely awoken by Matt screaming for one or both of us to fix things that went wrong. And a _lot_ of things were going wrong. If I didn't know better, I'd say we had an Opera Ghost waiting in the wings wreaking havoc on an unsuspecting cast. And in some ways, we did.

Flats had a tendency to fall over, as though they had been unbolted from the floor (and it was later found out that they had). One of the scrims caught fire and had to be ripped down to be extinguished and the light bar almost came down with it. Costumes disappeared, both entirely and just in pieces, which made my life more difficult because I had to replace everything that went missing, and a lot of the time that meant making an entirely new piece of clothing. The cast, of course, blamed it on bad luck.

The cast as an entity did not know the cause of Sam's death; they had been told it was an accident. They didn't know that there was some vindictive person prowling around campus, with a vendetta against our little group. Matt knew, of course, as did Holmes and I, and I'd told Liz, but the rest of the cast thought the show was unlucky or something. Superstition runs high in the theatre anyway, and this show bread even more. No one so much as whispered the title of any of Shakespeare's works in the wings, though it was only the Scottish tragedy that was considered unlucky to utter backstage. All ladders were folded up and put away as soon as they were no longer needed, strictly as a precaution, and the words 'good' and 'luck' were not ever mentioned in the same sentence. We certainly had the right mood going for a murder mystery; I had never seen a cast so jumpy.

Of course, they didn't have any reason to be nervous (baring the psychopath who had it in for the department, but as I said, they didn't know about that). The actual lines were going very smoothly. Holmes had picked up his part alarmingly quickly, even for him. We had drilled lines every chance we had for nearly two weeks, which meant _I_ knew just about everyone else's lines by rote as well. I ended up being drafted for prompter and half the time I didn't even need the script.

The cast worked very well together; they had no problems improvising when someone dropped a line or missed a cue. If Liz or I happened to jump at sudden movements or moving shadows back stage it could just be blamed on a broken coffee maker on my part and lack of sleep on Liz's.

Throughout all of this, Holmes was, predictably enough, a rock. He never showed so much as a flicker of surprise when a flat fell, and he was right there beside Matt pulling down the scrim as Sean, the guy playing Marston of the plastic chicken fame, worked the fire extinguisher on it. Being the typical Victorian male, he didn't want me going anywhere in the theatre alone and I got more than one stern lecture when he looked out on the audience and didn't see me in my customary place next to Liz. He insisted upon walking me home at night (it wasn't far enough to make a cab worthwhile, and walking is good exercise), but that meant that I would have to stay until Matt let cast go rather than when he let everyone else go, so Holmes ended up waking me up more than once when it was time to go.

I started having nightmares a week before opening night. It was probably just a combination of all the little things that were going wrong getting to me in the five or six hours a night that I did manage to sleep. I managed to wake myself up twice before I actually made any kind of commotion . I was dreaming about, predictably enough, opening night and all the things that could go wrong. The first dream featured Matt being pushed from the loft. The second featured Amber, the girl playing Vera, actually being strangled by the noose in the end scene. Of course, the third time I was not able to keep myself quiet. The third dream was about Holmes.

In the end of our show, Captain Lombard, the main character, is shot by Vera because she think's he's the murderer. We'd practiced every day, sometimes twice a day, with our starter pistol so everyone was used to the sound by opening night and no one did anything unfortunate like drop a glass and break it backstage and make an ill-timed noise and confuse the audience. It was my ultimate fear that someone would switch out the fake gun for a real one and Amber wouldn't know the difference. Apparently, it was Matt and Liz's biggest fear as well, because they started taking the pistol home with them every night instead of just leaving it on the props table like they used to. In my dream, that's exactly what happened: the murderer switched guns and no one noticed but me sitting in the audience. So I had to watch as Amber shot Holmes and he bled to death on stage. I was screaming in the dream, and I was later told I was screaming in real life. I woke up to Holmes looking down on me and shouting my name. As soon as he saw I was awake, he grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me up to a sitting position, letting me sob into his shoulder. He didn't say anything until I was rational again.

"Are you alright?" I nodded against his shoulder; I couldn't quite bring myself to move and he didn't seem to be in any kind of hurry to make me.

"Just a bad dream, I guess." I took several deep breaths before I continued. "Could you, maybe, hang out in here for a bit?" I knew it was a stretch. Having to live in the present year or not, Sherlock Holmes was a Victorian male who would find the idea of spending any more time than strictly necessary un-chaperoned in a woman's rooms very inappropriate and probably offensive. But I had to give it a shot.

He paused a moment before answering, "If you wish." I smiled at him, greatly appreciating the fact that he would set aside his preexisting values to make me more comfortable. Throwing any notions of propriety I had to the wind (and I didn't have many), I settled myself against him as we both leaned back into the cushioned headboard, my head again finding his shoulder and my left hand settling over his heart to reassure myself that it was still beating. For his part, he showed little to no hesitation when he wrapped his long skinny arms around my shoulders and waist and drew me closer.

I was very nearly asleep when I thought I heard him speak again. "I would that you had no need to be frightened. I would that I could keep you safe, always." As I said, I was very nearly asleep when I thought I heard this, so it was even odds that it never happened. I also could have sword I felt something soft, rather like a pair of lips, brush over my forehead, but it was just as likely that I was dreaming again.

When I woke up the next afternoon, he was already dressed and watching some stupid sitcom that he flicked off before I could get a good look at it (but I would swear that it was a rerun of Dawson's Creek). He fixed me with his trademark assessing look and asked, "Are you alright Elizabeth?"

"It was just a bad dream, Holmes. I'll be fine." I glanced at the microwave clock and frowned. "We should have lunch and go. Matt wants to have some sort of "talk" with the cast and stuff before we start for the day. I'm sure it's about Sam and…what happened to him. He said he was going to talk to them before the show went up, and as we only have five days, he is fast running out of time." I turned away from his endless gaze and began to fix sandwiches for the two of us. I saw that he already had the coffee on, so that was one less thing I had to do.

"Elizabeth." I didn't turn around, afraid of what I'd see in his face. I made some sort of noise to show that I was listening, which was apparently enough for him as he went on. "I wish you'd stop coming to these rehearsals. I could bring things that needed repair home for you to work on. I know you can be in touch with Matt and Liz without actually being there. You would be safe here. It is for your own good."

I turned around to find him quite a bit closer behind me that I thought he was. I swallowed and met his eyes. "While I appreciate the fact that you care about my wellbeing, I'm going to tell you the same thing I told my brother. I am not going to let some psychopath alter the way I live my life. If it actually comes down to it, this person has a vendetta against actors, and I am no actor so he or she wouldn't come after me anyway. I'm not a target and I _am_ needed. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to stay away just because some person is having an extreme hissy fit."

"I wish you would reconsider," he said with a sigh. I knew I was aggravating him with my refusal to do the 'smart' thing, but if I altered the way I lived my life, the psychopath won right? And that's what we were trying to avoid. I'd told my brother as much when he called to yell at me for being an idiot. When he didn't back off, I just hung up on him. I hadn't heard from him since.

"Yeah, well, I'm not going to so you may as well get over it now." I grinned up at him and froze. The look in his eyes nearly stopped my heart and I couldn't have moved if I wanted to. In a detached sort of way, I felt his hands slide up my arms to rest on either side of my throat. I'm sure he felt my pulse racing under his fingers but he didn't seem to take any notice of it. I saw a flicker of something that may or may not have been uncertainty flicker through his eyes, but a moment later, he bent his head and touched his mouth tentatively to mine. He gained confidence when I didn't push him away or slap him and a nice grey fog descended on my brain, leaving all my energy focused on touch. He took another step back, pushing me into the counter. I wasn't one to complain at that particular moment in time; in point of fact, I didn't even notice that I had a bit of wood digging into my back. I couldn't have cared less.

Of course, reality saw the need to kick in right at that moment. I heard the phone ringing and considering what was going on, I figured I ought to answer it. Holmes apparently thought the same thing, as he let me go about a second after I registered that the ringing wasn't just in my ears. His breathing was ragged and there were two spots of color riding high on his pale cheekbones. I cleared my throat and answered the phone.

"Lizzy, it's Liz. Get down here now. It's important." She hung up. I looked up at Holmes. "We have to go." He nodded and followed me to the door. He helped me on with my coat and threaded my arm through his, settling my hand in the crook of his elbow and covering it with one of his. We walked to the theater in near silence, both of us wondering what had happened now.

I'm not one hundred percent happy with the flow of this one, but I figured I'd put it up anyway because I haven't updated in a million years. Reviews, as always, are welcome. Holmes is public property, Ten Little Indians belongs to the Agatha Christy estate and I have no idea who claims the right to Dawson's Creek, but it isn't me.


	9. Chapter the Ninth

Ok… I know… I'm a terrible person for not getting this up sooner. I'm sorry. And I really have no excuse at all, as I've had the end written for a lot longer than I've had everything else written. This is the last chapter (less an epilogue, which should be up at the end of the week, if I get enough requests for it), so I do hope it's worth the wait. Again, sorry about the delay and thank you to all of you who are still reading.

Chapter Nine

The urgent call from Liz was actually urgent. I hadn't expected it to be; when we got that close to the wire, she tended to make mountains out of molehills. However, when Matt met us at the doors to the auditorium with compressed lips in a chalk-white face, I knew that Liz wasn't just being her usual anal-retentive self. He wouldn't tell us what was up, but ushered us to the front to sit next to Liz. She said nothing as we sat, just took my hand. This was BAAAD.

Apparently, we were the last to show up. Matt took the stage in typical fashion, drawing all eyes to him and waiting for absolute silence before he started speaking.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I know this will come as an enormous shock to you, but considering the circumstances, you need to be told." There were murmurs of confusion in the audience. Liz, Holmes and I knew at least some of what was coming, but not all of it. "This will be hard for you to hear, I know, but hear it you must." That was Matt, a ham even in the most sober of times. "Sam, our beloved cast member and friend, was murdered." Cries of shock, disbelief and outrage from the audience. Holmes took my free hand as Liz squeezed the one she'd captured earlier. "The verdict has just come back from the inquest and it pains me to have to be the one to tell you this. I would like to take a moment to remember Sam." He bowed his head, his shaggy blonde hair flopping over eyes bright with tears. He was good, I'll always give him that. There was a sob from somewhere behind me, probably Amber. Matt let the silence go for about a minute and a half before he went on. "I am afraid that is not all I have to tell you today. Sam was murdered because of this show." Holmes snorted softly beside me; that was something of an exaggeration. "There is someone who is holding a grudge against something about the show, whether it is the cast," Gasps of outrage from the audience. "The director," Silence from the audience (and I could tell that Matt was a bit peeved about that). "Or the show itself, someone is out there," he made a wide sweeping gesture. "With murderous intent. Compounded to that, we have to push the show up to tomorrow." Chaos erupted. People were screaming at Matt that we couldn't pull it off; that we shouldn't try to pull it off if there was a psychopath out there who already killed one person and was likely to kill the rest of us. They had a point. Of course, Matt wasn't finished. "I have been in touch with the police, who think they can catch this person on opening night of the show, as they believe this person will be very likely to attend. I have taken the liberty to agree for all of us, but if any of you want to back out, I completely understand."

No one said a word. Drama queens we may all be, but none of us were ones to back down from a challenge or to call off a show for anything short of apocalypse. Someone from the back, Andrew/ Captain Lombard I think, shouted, "The show must go on!" We broke into applause and the meeting was over.

I don't really remember what happened between the end of Matt's meeting and the show. Another gray fog had settled around my mind, though this one was a good deal less pleasant that the previous fog, and I couldn't see through it. Holmes must have made dinner, because I know I didn't, though I've never been able to get him to admit it. We watched some movie on TCM and I fell asleep on his shoulder. I woke up as he carried me from the couch to my room, and he stayed with me again without me having to ask him.

The entire cast showed up two hours before curtain. They dressed in relative silence, fingers shaking. I did up more buttons and zipped up more zippers that night than in any week of rehearsals combined. Make up was applied carefully and thickly, so no one would see the worry lines in foreheads or the paleness of cheeks. Ten minutes before the show was to go on, Matt brought us all together to give us his usual pre-show pep talk. I was impressed; he did not ham it up at all. He told us he thought we were all brave for going out there despite what we knew would probably happen, he told us we were one of the best casts and crews that he had ever worked with and he told us he was proud of us. We gathered in for one big group hug, and then he told us to get in our places, "For the show _will_ go on!" And it did. The thunder crashed and the first lines were spoken. Everyone started to relax and get into the swing of the show.

I sat in the wing backstage left on one of the old mauve double-wide armchairs that had been deemed too ugly to go onstage waiting for Holmes to come off so I could help him into his next costume before he missed his cue. I'd been knitting, but the "storm" on stage caused the lights backstage to be put out and I couldn't really knit and hold a flashlight at the same time. So I sat there in relative darkness, trying not to think of the psychopath that was probably lurking somewhere backstage with me waiting to kill someone. I think it goes without saying that I was a bit jumpy.

Holmes finally got off stage, throwing his hastily unbuttoned vest at me. He switched shirts while I turned away to transfer his pocket watch from the pinstriped vest to the dove gray one he was to wear until the end of the show. I held the garment out for him and he shrugged into it and started buttoning from the top as I started up from the bottom. "Thank you," he whispered, kissing my hand quickly before he all but ran back to the door to make his cue.

I rolled my eyes at his back, grinning like an idiot, and settled into my chair again to wait for the kid playing Wargrave to come off to have his custom made bullet-hole-to-the-head attached for his "death" scene.

The very dim lights in the alcove behind me flickered and the floorboards creaked. I swallowed hard, picking up one of my knitting needles from the floor with one hand and held my mini Maglight with my other. I'm sure I looked ridiculous, but it made me feel better.

The lights onstage went out, to a mixed chorus of shrieks from the cast and audience, and Wargrave came out. He wrapped himself in the scarlet shower curtain, I stuck on the bullet hole with liquid latex, and he put on the bad white wig made of yarn to complete the bad mock up of a British judge. He flashed me a grin and went back out.

I cleaned up my supplies and brought them back to the make up room. I heard the audience clapping as I padded my socked way back to my chair. Or tried to in any event. I slipped in a puddle of something and went down hard. I switched the Maglight on in disgust and swallowed a scream. Amber was dead and I was sitting in a pool of her blood. The psychopath struck again. I scrambled to my feet, nearly hyperventilating with the effort not to scream my head off, and ran to find Liz or Matt. Liz, shaking and white faced, went out and told the audience that we were having technical problems and to please bear with us. The police, most of whom were sitting in plane clothes in the audience, were called back stage and I could hear Richard and Holmes shouting at each other. Holmes wanted to go on with it because he was certain he could catch the murderer on stage and Richard was of the opinion that the theatre should be cleared and the murderer tracked down like in a "normal investigation". I was in the dressing room, cleaning up and changing. I had to wear one of Amber's costumes, as I didn't have any other clothes there. I finished dressing and sat down hard on a costume trunk in shock, and stayed there until Holmes came in.

He stopped abruptly in the doorway when he saw me, I can only imagine how terrible I looked, and pulled me to my feet and into his arms. He held me, expecting me to cry but I couldn't. I couldn't get the image of Amber, lying in a pool of her own blood from a slit throat, out from behind my eyelids. I stood there numb in his arms and shaking a little, until he put me back a step and told me,

"The show will continue. He will, almost assuredly, come out as Wargrave and we will catch him." I nodded. "But you need to take over for Amber; you know the lines and you're already wearing the costume." He was very calm about all of this. I was not.

"Scott, this is ridiculous! He'll kill all of us; there's nothing stopping him coming out with a twelve gauge shot gun for Christ's sake! Much as I hate to agree with my brother, maybe it's time to let the cops take over." Blinking tears away, I looked up into his eyes. He tried to smile for me, but it didn't entirely work.

"He'll just melt away Elizabeth. This is our only chance. You know I wouldn't put you in danger if I could possibly help it, if there was any other way. I know how he thinks, I know he will not be able to resist the urge to be in front of the audience. He'll want Wargrave next," I smiled at the fact that Holmes had picked up our habit of calling the cast by their character's name. "But he is with your brother and thus already out of the way. I have a revolver in my pocket," My brother would have a fit if he heard Holmes call a police issue pistol a 'revolver'. "And I will take the first clear shot. Everything will be alright, my dear." He touched my cheek lightly and I nodded, knowing I was the world's biggest idiot for going along with this. But then, I took Holmes in off the street, not knowing if he was a psychopath himself. This was only a _little_ worse. He smiled at me thinly and guided me out with an arm around my waist.

To this day, I don't know how we got through the third act of that show. I knew Amber's lines because I'd helped her learn them, but my terror was real. Holmes went off the balcony to look for Armstrong's body; I went to the liquor cabinet and discovered that someone (probably the murderer, but I wouldn't put it past Liz) had switched the apple juice for real whisky. Holmes came back and we resumed the lines. By the time I pretended to faint to get the gun, I was so terrified that he had to hold me a moment before I could stand on my own to shoot him.

"If you take one step nearer, I'll shoot!" I yelled at him, my hands shaking badly. The audience was silent, watching is. He moved and I pilled the trigger. And screamed.

He'd given me his revolver. Not the starter pistol that looked old and fired blanks. I'd just shot Sherlock Holmes with his own gun. If I hadn't been terrified out of my wits, I would have laughed. As it was…

I heard laughter from off stage left and froze. I saw the handle of the door in the flat turn and I seriously considered just jumping off the stage into the audience and making a run for it. I didn't, of course, but I thought about it. A man I'd never seen before came out in a dark gray suit with a noose in his hands. He started Wargrave's lines and reacted automatically, screaming and banging on the doors. I'd left the gun within easy reach of Holmes's hand. I knew he wasn't dead because he was still breathing, but I didn't know if he'd be able to sit up and shoot the psychopath who was currently chasing me around a very small set with a noose.

He caught me, swinging said noose around my neck, and dragged my to the center of the stage. He took the tail end of the rope and started to swing it up over the lighting bar shouting, "I must have my hanging-my--" BANG! I let out a shuddering sigh of relief as the madman fell. Holmes emptied the chamber of the revolver into the body for good measure, then looked to me to finish the play.

"Phillip- Phillip-" I went to him on the floor, my knees buckling and causing me to fall hard on the boards. He sat up painfully and pulled me against him.

"It's alright, my darling, it's alright." His voice was strained from pain and loss of blood and I was near to sobbing. What a pair we made.

"I thought you were dead. I thought I'd killed you!"

He laughed a bit. "Thank God women can't shoot straight. At least, not straight enough."

I wiped my damp face on the sleeve of my costume. "I shall never forget this," I told him truthfully.

"Oh yes you will," he said forcefully. "You know, there's another ending to that Ten Little Soldier Boys rhyme." He slipped the noose around his neck as well, and took my face in his hands. "One little soldier boy left all alone/We got married and then there were none." He pulled my face closer to his and kissed me. The lights faded to black and the curtain swung closed, but he didn't let me go. The curtain started to open back up for the company bow and we scrambled off the stage, Holmes leaning heavily on my shoulder.

I don't remember much after that, except the weird looks I got in the waiting room for wearing a 1930's cream colored wool suit drenched in blood.

The hospital people finally let me in to see him at three the next morning. He wasn't awake, but I took his hand anyway, and I brushed his never tidy hair out of his eyes. A moment later, they opened and he smiled.

"Hello, you."

I choked on a watery laugh. "You're a nut, you know that Scott?" I continued to use the pseudonym so no one would think we were too crazy.

He ignored the half hearted insult and asked, "Has everything been taken care of?"

I nodded. "I've spoken to Richard. They've taken the body and the guy… he's a freshman who wanted a part and held a grudge because he didn't get one. That's got to be about the stupidest reason for killing people I've ever heard of!" he said nothing to my outburst. I sniffed. "Why did you give me the real gun?" I asked softly.

Something changed in his face. "I wanted him to think I was dead. That there was nothing in the way of his hanging. I am sorry; I know it distressed you."

Distress was rather an understatement, but I said nothing, turning away from him.

"What is it, Elizabeth?" His hand on my wrist gave gentle pressure, but I didn't turn back to face him.

"I talked to Pip as well. She's fixed her machine. You can go home as soon as they let you out of here."

About a week later, Holmes was discharged and Pip, Frank, he and I were standing around Pip's laptop.

"Just let us know when you're ready," Pip told me, dragging Frank out of the room.

Holmes turned to me as soon as the door closed. "Come back with me."

I smiled sadly. "I can't. No more than you can stay."

Something flickered through his eyes, but he nodded tightly. "Then this is goodbye."

"I suppose it is," my voice cracked and I turned away. He came around in front of me and lifted my face with two fingers under my chin.

"_Adieu_ then, Miss Elizabeth," he said very quietly, pressing his mouth to mine quickly. He took my hand and pressed something round and cold into my palm, then broke away from me and called for Pip.

She came in and set everything up. "Are you ready, Mr Holmes?"

He nodded; I looked at my hand. His pocket watch sat there, shiny nad ticking. "Wait!" I went up to him and slid off the claddagh ring I wore every day and gave it to him. He looked at it for a moment, then slid it onto the littlest finger on his left hand, heart facing in. He took my hand and kissed it, just as he had done when we first met. I stepped back and he nodded at Pip. I did not break eye contact, taking him in as he was the first time I'd seen him: dark Victorian suit with the greatcoat over it, hair slicked back. He looked as though he was doing the same with me. I heard the click of a keyboard in the background and there was a flash of light.

When my eyes cleared, he was gone.

I smiled tightly at Pip and Frank. "I'm going home. Thanks for everything Pip." She nodded and I left.

The radio in the car came on when I turned the key and was blasting _The Scientist_, by Coldplay. I laughed at the appropriateness of it all, then started crying as I drove the twelve blocks back to my apartment.

I'd be fine, I knew. I'd just have to learn to live in that apartment alone again.

AN: Ok. So that was the last chapter. I do hope you all liked it. Most of the dialogue from the end came from Agatha Christy's _And_ _Then There Were None/ Ten Little Indians_, which I don't own. Holmes is public domain, but he was Doyle's first and I don't own Coldplay or any of their songs. Now that all that is over with, I can tell you that there **_is_** an epilogue written and ready to post, but I'm going away for a week, so you'll have to wait 'til then, but I do promise a Happy Ending. I'd love some reviews. Also, I want to thank all of you who are sticking with this even though I suck as posting regularly. J


	10. Chapter the Last

Well, I promised you all a happy ending, and here it is. And in a timely fashion too. Without further gilding the lily and with no ado at all, I give you the epilogue and end of New World.

The cop didn't even tell me where he was sending me. Talk about rude! Here I was, dressed oddly compared to everyone else and obviously lost, and he didn't even tell me where he was sending me. But let me back track a bit.

Life went on after Holmes left. Sure, I spent a lot of time on my fire escape, but life went on. Classes started up again about a week after he left so I had something to occupy my mind. Sort of. Pip noticed (obviously) that I was a bit upset and that it didn't go away like we'd all expected it to. She came over to the apartment one Friday night about ten months after Holmes had left to find me sitting in front of the TV watching _The Philadelphia Story_ with a bowl of popcorn on my lap.

"Hey Liz. Shouldn't you be writing that paper for your Politics class?" She flopped down beside me and dug her hand into the popcorn bowl.

"Probably. It'll get done. I have like three days left. And this is a good movie."

"At least you're still going to class." She ate more popcorn. Loudly.

"Oh shut up. I don't skip anymore class now than I did before… yeah. I only skip French." I didn't look at her because I knew she'd be giving me that 'I know you're lying to me but I'm not going to call you on it' look. I hated that look. "I'm fine, Pip. I'm going to class, I'll get my degree and a job (I hope) and be able to move somewhere. It'll all work out."

"Fine you may be," she grumbled. "But you aren't happy." She ate another handful of popcorn. "Look, Liz, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left Frank alone with that computer; I should have known he'd do something unbelievably stupid."

I laughed. "Don't be sorry. I don't regret any of it. I just wish…Never mind." I knew she knew exactly what I wished. I should have gone with him. I knew he couldn't stay, but there was very little holding me here. I didn't get along with my mother, Richard _still_ wasn't speaking to me for almost getting killed on stage in front of a packed house and, at this point, I couldn't care less about college. Sure, I'd miss Pip and Frank, but I knew that we'd both feel better if I wasn't moping around my apartment.

"None of it?" She looked at me sideways.

"Well, I could have done without almost being hanged on stage, but that's not really the same thing."

She laughed. "I suppose it's not."

She ended up staying the night, playing on my laptop (which should have been a red flag) because she didn't want to watch my black and white movies. We both fell asleep in the living room and she woke me up and made me go to my French class the next morning. Without coffee. Sometimes, I really hated her.

I came back from class and dropped my books on the floor by the door, not intending to do the homework. Ever. But I did have to write that Politics paper. I sat down at my laptop and turned it on, typing in my password when it asked. Instead of my normal desktop, the screen went black and the words "THIS IS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD" flashed lime green across the screen. The air around me got fizzy and I blinked, trying to clear my vision. I saw a flash of bright light behind my eyelids and felt a jolt. I opened my eyes and saw a lot of brick. Brick buildings, cobbled streets. I was standing on a wooden sidewalk.

I blinked a few times, realizing what Pip had done. Or, tried to do. While I appreciated the fact that she tried to send me back to the man I loved (!), a date would have been nice. Though I was a history major, one part of Victorian London (I could see Big Ben so at least I knew _where_ I was, if not _when_) looked the same to me as any other part would. Had this been a movie (or bad fanfiction), there would have been a boy with a news paper shouting the date from every street corner, but there wasn't. I couldn't find a paper boy, and I looked for about fifteen minutes. Finally, I decided to cut my loses and try to find the police.

That proved to be less difficult. I was ushered into the office of Somebody Gregson, who listened to my fabricated story (I could hardly tell him that my best friend had sent me back through the fourth dimension via an electronic field) with a huge smirk on his rather less than attractive face. When I finished, he threw a blanket around my shoulders and hustled me out to a rank of carriage-looking things and bundled me into one. He gave an address to the driver that I didn't manage to catch and paid him. The carriage- it had to be a cab and probably a hansom- started to move.

This was bad. I knew where I was, but I had no idea when I was (and that cop just looked at me like I was raving when I asked and didn't answer me), or what I was going to do if whoever was at the address didn't believe me. In far too short a time for my peace of mine, the cab stopped and the man opened the door for me, helping me out. I swallowed hard and walked up the steps to a green door and knocked. A middle aged Scottish woman answered the door and ushered me into something that reminded me of the mud room in my Aunt's house. She took my blanket with a raised eyebrow and I told her what the cop said. She told me to go up the stairs and knock on the first door to my right. So I went up the stairs and knocked on the first door to my right.

A male voice told me to enter, so I did, pushing the door open and freezing in my tracks as I was arrested by a pair of very familiar gray eyes.

We stood for a long moment, Sherlock Holmes and I, staring at each other in a mixture of wonderment and shock. I took another step into the room and was in his arms a heartbeat later. I looked over his shoulder, blinking through tears that were suddenly stinging the backs of my eyes and saw another man who could only be Doctor Watson (who looked as though he was going to wet himself with shock) staring at his 'cold and unfeeling' friend as he embraced a strangely dressed woman for all he was worth.

Holmes pulled back, one hand straying to my cheek. He still had my ring on his finger. "You're here?" He breathed into my ear. "You are not just another dream sent to haunt me?"

I shook my head, a tear forcing its way out of the corner of my eye only to be wiped away by the pad of his thumb. "I'm here." I sniffed, suddenly remembering my anger. "Although I had no hand in my coming here." He raised an eyebrow as he led me to the sofa and sat next to me. The doctor was silent, fairly humming with curiosity and drinking in every word that was said. I winked at him and he smiled. "Pip apparently thought I was moping too much (and I was), so she fixed my laptop to project me back to you. Damn good luck she hit it after you'd already been to see us rather than before." He looked smug. "You were in on this." It was not a question.

"I was not 'in on' anything. She merely asked me what the year was when I left." I glared at him. "I will confess to thinking that she would perhaps find a way to bring us together again."

"You really do know everything." I laughed. "In any event, I went to the police when I couldn't figure out when I was and some pain in the ass cop bundled me into a cab and didn't tell me where it was going. I had no idea I was coming to you."

He smiled a little. "Gregson?" I nodded. "That is very like him. I apologize for the rough conduct I am sure you found at his hands." Watson choked on a laugh then and Holmes remembered he was in the room. I was introduced to him (he kissed my hand and I blushed like mad).

Holmes grabbed my hand suddenly and pulled me to my feet. "Miss James and I shall return shortly. We shall take a turn around Regent's before dinner; she expressed a wish to see it." Watson nodded absently, already reaching for his fountain pen and paper, no doubt to write it all down so the detective could never deny it.

I followed Holmes, even let him throw an overcoat over my shoulders as he hustled me out the door. I was hard put to keep up with his long legged stride, especially as I had no idea at all where I was going.

We made it to Regent's ( I assumed; it was a park anyway) about twenty minutes later and he led me, still silent, along the winding paths until we found ourselves alone under some pine trees. He stopped abruptly, and my shoulder banged into his. He turned to face me, half a smile pulling up the corner of his mouth. "Will you stay?" he asked. I opened my mouth to reply, but he cut me off. "I realize that it is an enormous amount to ask you to give up, but I do not want to watch you leave again. I-" he faltered, but sped on. "I do not think I would deal well with it."

I smiled. "I'm here for the duration." His face broke out into a huge grin. "To tell you the truth, I couldn't get back even if I wanted to. Not that I do," I added, seeing the grin falter a bit. "I wouldn't deal well with leaving you again. I'm here, if you'll-" He kissed me then, and the rest of my sentence was lost along with most of the functioning part of my brain.

He pulled away just as the purple spots started to swarm before my eyes, telling me that I needed to breathe.

"This time," he whispered, pulling me closer, "I will not let you go."

A girl could get used to this kind of treatment. And it looked as though I would have the chance to. I was, according to my mind, the luckiest young woman in the history of the world. And then I lived happily ever after.

There you go folks. I promised a happy ending and I have delivered. I hope you have enjoyed it and, again, I apologize for the amount of time that elapsed between updates. I do hope this has made up for it. As for the future, I'm going to try and turn my one shot, _Reminiscences_ into a real story, so look out for that. Also, my other story, _The Problem with Fics_, is officially abandoned. If anyone wants to know what was going to happen (if it wasn't painfully obvious) or wants to take it over to finish, email me and we'll talk. Other than that, I thank you all for reading and would appreciate a review or two.

_The End_


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